This thing that builds our dreams
by TakeneNe
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale meet the Doctor and timey-wimey happens. Attempted marriage proposals, space and overall fluff.


A/N: All characters belong to their rightful creators. The title's form_ Who Wants To Live Forever_ by _Queen_

**Story inspired by Cell0113's amazing take on the ineffable side of things, to be found on AO3/works/19810231  
(Which is, in turn, a sequel/companion piece to my _Donna-meets-Crowley_ ficlet found here: FFnet****/s/13336729/1 or here: AO3/****works/19796761****)**

* * *

**This thing that builds our dreams**

Crowley didn't want to be here. He really, _really_ didn't. He was just passing by, minding his own business when some fishy looking men in masks snatched him from the hallway and locked in some… supply cupboard, by the looks of it.

Funny thing was, though, he seemed unable to miracle himself free.

He snapped his fingers. Repeatedly. He tried gently _persuading_ the door to open and even yelled at the floor to swallow him _right this instant and spit out on the level below!_

Nothing worked.

Not even a small spark of comprehension rose from the cold concrete, not a single shudder of wood, well aware it was going to end up in splinters if it so kindly wouldn't _open the Hell up._ Nothing. Zero. Null and nada. And he wasn't even out of miracles to blame it on his own reckless profligacy! In fact, he was more cautious these days in regard to performing too many frivolous miracles, he was. It sucked ass hard, but it had to be done. Not because Crowley gave even one crap about what Down Below might think about his splurging, oh no. They never cared before anyway, and Crowley honestly couldn't see a reason as to why they might've started _now,_ when his record officially stated _Extinct by means of Holy Water._

Naaah.

Hell didn't screw around.

It was all Aziraphale's fault.

Aziraphale's and his constant worry that their former head offices might actually still want their heads, even though it's already been more than a handful of years since the world didn't end. Aziraphale's that he watched out for danger and saved up his miracles anyway, just to keep his angel somewhat at ease. And Aziraphale's that he was even here, in this blasted shopping mall, in the first place!

_"It's Adam's birthday, Crowley! We can't just show up with nothing!"_

_"It's the Great Anniversary Party, Crowley! **Everyone** will be there!"_

_"Oh, Crowley. Please, dearest."_

So Crowley went. Of course he did, he would've done just about anything the angel asked of him. But Crowley also had a Plan.

The day of the botched Armageddon was also the one he and Aziraphale chose, in a very human fashion, as an anniversary of their own. And Crowley really wanted to get his angel something nice. Or maybe even more than nice. _Monumental._ Like a snake brooch. Or… or maybe even _a_ _ring._

So he went without (much) protest, Bentley roaring into life with the usual obedient enthusiasm and the cascade of (maybe) ideas rolling through his mind.

And so Crowley was fucked.

There wasn't anything particularly useful in his makeshift prison to either pass the time or just _break_ _free,_ and certainly not even a drop of liquor to ease his nerves. For he _was_ nervous. Ever more so with every passing minute. Not for himself, really, but—

Aziraphale would be beside himself if Crowley didn't come back home in time. And Crowley _awfully _didn't want to think about what the angel might do if he didn't make it to that blessed party. Heavens help him, discorporation might not be such a bad option after all.

The only things that were there, that Crowley found even remotely interesting, were some sort of silver wires coming out of a huge mirror's frame, sitting at the very back of the room. They twisted and twirled together in delicate, fine patterns, strongly reminiscing Crowley of small snakes dancing together in a deathly embrace. The wires encircled the whole room, just a bit below the ceiling, forming a closed circuit of shimmering lines.

It looked rather pretty, if Crowley was to judge, but it didn't seem to serve much purpose. Putting some fanciful decorations in an apparently unused room – going by the thick layer of dust on about everything there, Crowley himself included – wasn't something even he partook in, and that was saying something.

The mirror itself was huge. Plenty wide for at least two people to comfortably ogle themselves without the need to squeeze together ungracefully and as tall as the wall it was placed on.

It was a nice mirror.

For the lack of anything better to do, Crowley eventually wandered close to its surface. Just enough to poke a finger at it, enough to contemplate the state of his hair and shake away some of the dust off his jacket.

Well, at least that was before the mirror _moved._

At first, Crowley didn't notice the slight wiggle of the glass surface, too occupied by a particularly stubborn spot on his collar. He didn't notice when his reflection moved its hip in the opposite direction, even if just a notch, and then raised the wrong hand to ruffle its hair.

But then it spoke.

"You're me!"

Gleeful curiosity spiked the voice from the mirror to pitch just a note too high and the reflection moved closer, pressing both hands and a nose to the surface of the glass, as if it were a real man on the other side.

"But you're _ginger!_ Ooooh, why can_ I_ never be ginger!?"

Crowley took an abrupt step backwards, tripping on his own feet with the grace of a newborn gazelle.

"What?!"

The glass wrinkled as if it were liquid, ripples spreading in soft circles from all points of contact as the reflection kept pressing forward, more and more of its parts connecting with the surface.

"Now, what are you…" it murmured in Crowley's voice and the demon was sure he was being carefully scrutinized from behind his own, mirrored glasses. Then, face still ridiculously plastered against the glass, his duplicate reached to the pocket of its trousers, which Crowley _knew_ couldn't hold _anything_ that wasn't miraculously there, and fished out a metal wand. That started buzzing.

_Oh._

It was _him._ It had to be.

Crowley watched as his other self waved the magic stick left and right, mumbling technobabble Crowley truly couldn't wish to understand. He didn't even want to, though phrases like _'double time lock'_ and _'reversed polarity'_ popped up often enough for him to pick up.

"Brilliant!" The wand stopped buzzing, the reflection took a step back and smiled in a way that was very un-Crowley-like. "All right, I'm coming in."

The mirror wiggled and twisted and warped around itself, and then the man started to show up. A splash of hair, a speck of chin, a shoulder clad in dark blue; he squeezed through the glass like he was wrestling his way across an ever-closing canyon of jelly and almost fell on his face when he finally emerged.

"Hello," said the Doctor standing up.

Crowley tried his best to keep a straight face, he really, _really_ did, but his best didn't quite measure up right now. Here he was, stuck in an impossible situation, with the man he admired and pitied in equal amounts yet only ever learned about from _her_ memories. Locked up in a room with no windows and no way out save for _a mirror,_ and no miracles at call. Completely left to the mercy of the Lonely God, the timeless traveller that's done things worse than Crowley could ever imagine and burned brighter than Heavens ever could.

And then there was _her,_ still at the back of his mind. Filled with passion and wonder and so, so much pain. The memory of her sharp when she cried silently as the universe ripped her mind apart. Just for a moment, before she had to forget, _again._

Crowley was a snake. He was a master of slithering through challenging situations with all his scales still intact, but he truly, sincerely didn't know what to make of this one.

Well, one couldn't go wrong with: "H-hello."

The Doctor beamed again, his face lit up in a flashy manner Crowley never thought his own features could achieve, and the infernal noise returned – the Doctor waved his stick along the wires and the mirror's frame, in front of Crowley's face and along his body, mumbling nonsense about _spacial dissonance, energy gates_ and _advanced dimensional engineering._ Looking at him go, fervent and constantly in motion made Crowley think there was something… _different_ about the man. That he wasn't as jaded as _she_ remembered him, not as bitter.

Or maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him. Crowley was never the greatest judge of character, it was more of an Aziraphale thing.

He was fascinated, though, now that he had a chance to actually _experience_ the man himself. Snakes were curious beings, after all. If they wanted to be.

"So, Doctor," Crowley started when the funny device almost poked his left lens. The buzzing didn't stop, but the Doctor stiffened in his motions, looking all the more at guard than he was just a second ago.

"Have we met?" he asked, looking straight at Crowley, almost _through_ him, as if the glasses were never there.

"Well… ugh… Sort of, yeah."

"Naaah, I would remember." But Crowley's incoherent words apparently broke some sort of tension the Doctor must've been nursing, because his posture very visibly limped and he turned away, his features melting into a sulk.

"Oooh, you're not a trap, are you? Please tell me you're not a trap."

_What?_

"What?! A _trap?! _Of course I'm not a trap! I am _trapped_ here, in case you didn't notice!"

"Well," the Doctor paused to check something on his device. "That's exactly what a trap would say, if you ask me."

Crowley could feel the very cold blood of his very human body boil in that exact moment.

**_"I am Crowley, Demon of the Bottomless Pit, the Snake of Garden of Eden and Architect of the Original Sin! I am no trap, puny mortal!"_**

Of course, Crowley meant none of that pompousness seriously, but demon had to make do, somehow. Even though inflicting the Fear of Crowley usually worked only on his plants.

Of course, the Doctor didn't bite into it.

"Oh, really?" The sunny smile was back and so was the intense stare. Crowley knew _he_ was moody, and of short temper, but the Doctor could evidently beat him at any mood swing competition.

It was actually disconcerting, looking at his own face, not in a mirror but worn by a completely different man, moulding in so unfamiliar ways with every expression.

"Alrighty, then!"

He tapped back, pointed his buzzing menace at the mirror glass like it were a sword and looked at Crowley expectantly.

"There is an intergalactic mob convention happening on the other side of this portal. With which I might've messed a little. And maybe teased the big boss. _And_ his main competition. Anyway, the point is: they're probably out for my head and _probably_ don't realize you're not me."

The Doctor's smile was all teeth.

"Up for a bit of fun?"

And Crowley really was.

So he grinned in his best, demonic, wicked fashion and swaggered onward. He already knew that – as some might say – this was going to be one Hell of a ride.

o0o

Aziraphale wasn't prepared for anything unusual when he entered his living room that fateful Thursday, but that was only to be expected, really. After all, his life following the Apocalypse That Wasn't happened to settle on _as-far-from-unusual-as-humanly-(and-occultly)-possible _and that was perfectly fine.

He bought a house.

Well, acquired more like it. Because the actual money was never involved in the process. The cottage in South Downs was lovely every time of the year, with its miraculously spacious library, its cosy greenhouse, and the most welcoming fireplace. It also housed a very special demon and the charm of that arrangement was not something Aziraphale was willing to miss out on. Certainly not now, when he was no longer compelled to give a damn about the Opinions of Up Above.

He closed the Bookshop.

Well, it was still _there, _obviously. The old thing had been a home for far too long to just be abandoned without a reason any more solid than a nasty case of Hellfire, but it didn't serve much purpose in its retirement. Aziraphale didn't need any extra storage because space wasn't expandable only on human plane of existence, yet the pretence of it being still _intact,_ still _functioning_ in the same manner it always has, was strangely enticing.

So the Bookshop looked a little more deserted, a little more mysterious from the outside, but nothing really changed inside except it being a lot less attended by its hitherto inhabitants. It was still loved.

In fact, it was unquestionably convenient to have somewhere familiar to return to when one of them needed to attend some urgent business in London, and Crowley's flat tended to be haphazardly infested with witches and teenaged antichrists, roaming about like they owned the place. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley actually knew why exactly this was the case, but they preferred to _stay_ uninformed, thank you very much. Humans worked in such inexplicable ways that even six thousand years of experience wasn't any help in fathoming all of their nooks and quirks.

He was learning, though. It was an ever-going process, of course, but Aziraphale found doing things the more human way very endearing these days.

But now that he and Crowley were on their own side, and thus allowed to _fraternize_ all the way to their hearts' content, Aziraphale couldn't shake the idea that maybe, _maybe_ he wanted the taste of something much more intimate, much more meaningful and special, that only humans seemed to be able to appreciate.

A vow.

Connection of souls, but the one cast by choice and willing desire to give and not to withhold any and every part of one's being.

Aziraphale wanted that. He wanted something only they would share, not because he wasn't absolutely sure he and Crowley were forever; that somehow one could exist without the other — what an utterly preposterous thought, really — but because that was what they_ ultimately did._ They chose each other, their place in the universe over destruction and war and Holy Water and Hellfire; they gambled on everything that mattered and came out on top; they actually won their right to be whatever _they_ defined, not what they were preordained to.

And maybe it was silly of him, but Aziraphale truly wanted to celebrate that. To take one of Earth's most sacred traditions and make it their own. Because they were of Earth now, too.

So Aziraphale had a Plan.

It was a perfect time to execute it, too, because the Anniversary was coming, and what a better time to tell the most important being in your eternal existence that you want them to be spoken for, to be claimed by you, and you only, for every lasting moment of the creation, if they'd have you.

The plan was simple.

1\. Get rid of Crowley for the day to prepare refreshments;

2\. Take care of the perfect picnic spot;

3\. Convince the sky to be perfectly clear for the evening _and_ the night;

4\. Make sure the ring you picked is easily accessible (preferably in a pocket or picnic basket);

5\. Drink a little to calm nerves before Crowley's return (important: do not get overboard);

6\. Suggest an evening out for the pre-party relaxation purposes;

(Do _not_ be awkward;)

(Try _not_ to discorporate;)

7\. Wait for sunset and pop the question;

(Run away to Alpha Centauri if needed.)

Simple and efficient, yes. Moreover, it was happening _now._

So no, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to assume Aziraphale's mind was centred on things of much more grandeur than potential disruption of his lovely, lovely scheme as he waltzed into the living room to retrieve _the ring._

Up until now he kept it hidden behind his favourite tomes of Wilde collection, he knew for sure Crowley _would never _touch. His objective was simple: fish out the velvet box, inspect its contents to make sure the _thing_ was still there, untouched and as perfect as Aziraphale encouraged it to be, and tuck it away safely in one of his jacket's spacious pockets. The one closest to his would-be heart, ideally.

The problem was, though, there was already someone leaning comfortably against said bookshelf, Wilde in hand and expression completely enthralled. Someone lean and bendy in all the wrong places, someone red-headed and wearing _sunglasses inside._

Aziraphale froze in terror deeper than he ever thought for a celestial being to be possible.

He needed to salvage the situation and he needed to do it fast.

"You look just ravishing, my dear boy. The coat suits you very well."

Wilde's first edition hit the floor with the sickening whine of an old spine being broken in half. Aziraphale flinched involuntarily but there were more burning matters at hand to take care of and he could surely sort this poor fella right out when the time was more convenient.

"And the blue, mmm. Very stylish," he added, desperately trying to smother his panic. It earned him a startled whiz and a case of comically raised eyebrows, but did nothing to improve his position.

"Ugh… ahm… aghh… I… What?"

Ah yes, the stutter was always a good sign of distraction. Maybe not all was lost yet, after all.

Aziraphale started moving very politely towards the bookshelf — _small steps, Aziraphale! You don't want to alarm the prey! —_ in hopes to maybe camp himself there until he was alone in the room again, a tactic that's often proven successful in the Bookshop, in case of some very naughty customers.

He was just about to round the table and take the final leap across the fireplace when a pair of strong, slender arms closed around his waist and a head rested on his shoulder, nose brushing along his jawline. And maybe it wasn't enough to release all the tension — Aziraphale's precious secret was still endangered! — but he melted into the embrace anyway, because whoever was that imposter pawning his books, he sure as Earth wasn't Crowley.

Crowley, that, by the look of his forearms Aziraphale was only able to see, was wearing the same soft-brown coat as the stranger.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, counting on at least some answers considering this unlikely rendezvous.

"I missed you, angel. I really did," his demon whispered instead, tightening his grip. It felt strangely familiar to being engulfed by a snake and Aziraphale softened at that thought, just a little. Still, he would've liked to be included in whatever has been going on here.

"But Crowley. What… what is the meaning of this? And who is _he?_" Aziraphale pointed at the other-Crowley, who immediately sparked into motion. Pulling his —_Crowley's—_ sunglasses up his head, he jumped over one of their flowerpots, getting closer with his hand outstretched for a handshake.

Which Aziraphale granted, as was the proper thing to do.

Without the cover of the shades, though, he was able to see stranger's very human, very brown eyes and it eased him a little bit more. He wasn't sure why, exactly, but the striking resemblance this man bore to Crowley made him feel a bit eerie.

"I'm the Doctor!" The not-Crowley announced, shaking Aziraphale's hand way more vigorously than there was a need for. "I'm a traveller from the planet Gallifrey."

"…you're a Time Lord."

"Yup. Nice to finally meet you!"

The realization hit Aziraphale with the force of an impending train. Because if this _Doctor,_ with Crowley's face **—_sort of—_** was really one of **_those people,_** then that meant _she_ had to be somehow involved, too. And that was very unlikely, given what Crowley had to do to keep her from disintegrating.

As a matter of fact, Aziraphale was well aware that Crowley would occasionally pop back to London just to check if _she_ was still all right and perform a few miracles here and there to ease her life a little.

They never talked about this, of course, but the grim aura that seemed to always surround the demon when he came back from his little trips and yet another study on the workings of the human mind he carried with him truly said it all.

Aziraphale couldn't blame him.

Just the look on Crowley's face when he locked _that woman's_ mind, the guilt, the anguish the knowledge of being partially complicit in the cause of her pain brought was enough to make Aziraphale crumble in grief. So it was all the more surprising to find out that Crowley seemed now to be on the best of terms with the man that started it all. They were probably even dressed like twins, for Earth's sake!

Aziraphale wanted to turn in Crowley's embrace to search his face for clues, any clues really, because this was just plainly ridiculous, but the demon, sensing his movement, only stiffen his hold.

"Don't go, angel, please. Let me have this," he pleaded softly, leaving behind a tingling sensation of his lips brushing against the side of Aziraphale's neck.

And it wasn't typical for Crowley to talk about his _feelings_ in any sort of direct fashion _at all, _and Aziraphale was starting to worry that something might've been very, _very wrong._

"All right," he allowed, pressing himself more firmly into the demon's touch, as if it were even possible at this point. "But Crowley, what… how… when… What happened, Crowley? Talk to me, dearest, please."

But Crowley didn't answer him directly again. Instead, he inhaled the angel's scent in one deep breath and raised his head from Aziraphale's shoulder to look at the other man.

"How long has it been, Doctor? Ten years?"

"More like fifteen, I'd wager."

Aziraphale hadn't noticed the way the Doctor was looking at them before, too occupied by his own thoughts and the comforting warmth of his demon's touch, but now, when he followed Crowley's gaze it seems almost uncanny how he missed that before.

The Doctor was looking at them with the kind of tender softness, that only a being intimately familiar with the extent of love an immortal heart could harbour would understand.

It shouldn't be as surprising, though.

Aziraphale could never mistake this man for Crowley, because he could feel, from the very moments he entered the room, that the Doctor, much like himself, was a being of love. That he burned with passion for knowledge, for _understanding; _he burned with love for every creation, big and small, so vast and endless it was hard for Aziraphale to even fathom the depths of it. And it had to be something, that love, that restless desire to discover and to protect, that he _chose_ to be, so very long ago. Because unlike Aziraphale, who's ingrained, default state of being was to love everything equally, as everything was Her sacred creation, he knew for sure Time Lords were not made for any sort of adoration. Let alone adoration of life.

And it was beautiful, really, being able to feel the magnitude of his emotions, displayed so clearly for the angel's senses to explore. Beautiful, because he wasn't a celestial being, he wasn't a _god_ some might've taken him for. He was everything but, yet still so very painfully human, like a raw nerve, ablaze with love and _in_ _love,_ always ready for the consequences it might bear, no matter the cost.

And that magnificent man with hearts full of wonder was looking at them, old fools that they were, clinging to each other awkwardly like they were the most marvellous thing he's ever seen.

_'Oh, '_ Aziraphale thought, blinking away the sudden welling of his eyes. '_No wonder Crowley would run away with such a man.'_

"Fifteen years?" he repeated to no one in particular, trying his best to stay composed, now that all the information sunk in.

"Yup, I'm afraid so." It was very rude of the Doctor to smile cheekily when he said that, but Aziraphale noticed he also wiggled fidgety as if he were eager to go. He was right.

"Anyways," the Doctor swayed backwards, sliding his hands into the pockets of his suit. "I just popped in to drop AJ off and say hello. Iiii should be going now."

"Don't let Rose wait up on ya," purred Crowley mockingly, finally un-plastering himself from Aziraphale's back, only to approach the Doctor and hand him a small, blue box. He was indeed dressed exactly like the man, and seeing them both together like that was doing _things_ to Aziraphale's mind.

"And don't forget _that."_ The alien's face immediately lit up when he took the box and he promptly jogged to the entrance, waving his goodbyes in passing.

"Crowley," Aziraphale started, confused and slightly overwhelmed by this whole… _experience,_ his plans completely forgotten and head full of questions.

"Aziraphale. Oh angel, I will tell you everything, just let me—"

But apparently, it wasn't his time to get the answers, either.

The sort of wheezing, warping noise cut Crowley's sentence in half and a big, dusty police box slowly materialized in the middle of the room, nearly crushing an antique standing clock that Aziraphale bargained from a pedlar. The Doctor's face showed up from behind the door and he glanced at them with the utmost glee.

"I just thought you two might fancy a picnic in the stars. Just to… finish off with a nice _touch." _And he disappeared inside again.

"Aaaah, I knew you couldn't stay away, you old bastard," Crowley snickered, already moving towards the box. "Come on, angel, it's gonna be fun."

Aziraphale didn't want to go, though. He had Plans, very grand ones, and a cup of cocoa, waiting for him in the kitchen, still miraculously warm.

"But Crowley, I have plans! And what about the party tomorrow?" He tried to bide his time, helplessly thinking about the ring hidden on the bookshelf.

"It's a time machine, Aziraphale. We'll be back before you know it."

o0o

In the end, Aziraphale yielded and boarded the ship. It was a nice ship. Very clever in her own right.

They ended up camping on a planet deep into the Omega Centauri cluster, which was still close enough from home for Aziraphale to be comfortable with the trip. And well. It was certainly worth it.

They lay for hours on a barren land that seemed to be nothing but a dark, slick glass, watching celestial dance of a hundred suns. It was a view astonishing in a way no words could ever express and completely ineffable in its beauty. It was an extraordinary picnic after all, even though it had nothing to do with Aziraphale's original intentions.

He was glad he agreed to come, anyway.

Later, much later when they would be back on the familiar soil, breathing salty air on a beach with not nearly enough stars to light up the night, Crowley would tell him all about his journeys.

He would tell him how he saw stars and galaxies that just _happened_ since the creation; how he walked the Earths that were both so like and unlike their own and those he helped create.

He would tell him how the Doctor took him in without questions, like he already knew what he was and about the easy connection they shared.

He would tell him how he miracled the Doctor's hair to turn ginger so they could match even more and how the man was ecstatic and immediately drawn by the concept of real magic; how they tricked dozens of people that way but how Rose was still able to tell them apart on the first go; how they dismantled the biggest star-fish AI trafficking mob in the universe on that very first day and so, so many others like that in the years that followed.

And he would take Aziraphale's hands into his own and he would tell him that when you run with the Doctor, it feels like it'll never end. That it feels like it's going to last forever, but that Crowley has already found his forever, right here, in this cottage by the sea, with his angel, happily taking the slow path.

That he didn't _want_ the universe if he couldn't share it with him.

* * *

Didn't really wanna spoil on top, but the gorgeous art that inspired all of this mess in the first plcace can be found at: **ohziland_tumblr_com/post/186000590179/how-could-that-be-the-same-person (you know where to put the dots)**

Also there is THIS awesome pic which I haven't seen until after I wrote this, but certainly has The VibeTM

at: **lunchisover_tumblr_com/post/185701625362**

Cross posted from AO3, which, as always come visit for better formatting. My handle there is takene_ne


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